


Brother Mine

by Citrine (orphan_account)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Incestous desires, Jealousy, M/M, Watersports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-09
Updated: 2012-10-09
Packaged: 2017-11-15 23:19:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/532867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Citrine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's playing desperation games with John and Mycroft is, well, pissed off about it:</p><p>One does not bow the knee to upstarts. If Sherlock is to be humbled it ought to be by my hand alone.  It does not please me to discover that he has permitted John to dominate and defeat him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brother Mine

**Author's Note:**

> Just something I wrote as a break from a longer, more angsty story.
> 
> I hope you enjoy it.
> 
> Disclaimer: Don't own, just borrowing for this fic - no profit made.

One does not wish to be uncharitable, but he has begun to irritate me of late. The good doctor presumes too much, too often.  I have started to think of him as an arrogant little man. He plays dark, twisted games with my brother. He has brought into reality perversions Sherlock would have been content to leave in the cesspit of his imagination; if it were not for John Watson's influence.

There must be standards of conduct. Rules. Order in the universe.

Ours is a long and noble lineage. One does not bow the knee to upstarts. If Sherlock is to be humbled it ought to be by my hand alone.  It does not please me to discover that he has permitted John to dominate and defeat him.  This simply will not do. I will not deny that Sherlock's performance is somewhat entertaining, but that does not excuse their behaviour. It does not excuse Sherlock's capitulation.

The image is frozen on my laptop screen. Sherlock bent at the waist, one hand thrust between his legs. Don't beg, damn you, but I know that he will the instant I press the play button. I refrain.  His pleading incenses me. My fist clenches on my thigh, even the still image makes me ache to slap him.

John annoys me even more. He stands in the corner of the frame with his arms folded across his chest. Lord of all he surveys.

Or so he believes.

Know your enemy.

With the greatest of reluctance I set the film running. 

“Please...” Sherlock looks up at John with panic in his eyes. “Christ, John, I've got to go.”

 “Hold it,” John orders him.

 “I'm fucking dying. Please, John, for god's sake let me piss.”

There are tears in Sherlock's eyes. How shameful is that? I watch him unravel before me and before John who forbids him all relief. Sherlock is frantic now, wriggling and almost weeping in his distress.  My anger builds, an edifice of iron fury and I do not know which of them I despise the most.  Sherlock is a Holmes. He should not whimper and whine. Stand up straight, my boy, and damn him to hell.

Sherlock drops to his knees, rocking back and forth.

John stands over him.  His grabs his hair and yanks his head back. “If you piss yourself I'll make you wish that you'd never been born, you little bastard.”

“I can't...please, I can't.”

I however can and I fully intend to do so. This whole sordid business has gone for quite long enough. It is time for John Watson to be reminded of his place in the scheme of things.  It will look like an accident, tragic and unforeseen. He'll live because death is the end of all punishments, but he may well wish that he had not.

Sherlock cries out and a wide yellow puddle spreads around him.

I will admit to a certain fascination.

My pleasure is marred by John's violence. One does not hit a Holmes, but he dares to do so.  Sherlock’s head jerks back under the impact of the blow. There is blood on his lip and tomorrow there will be a bruise, purple and black, on his cheek.  John bends over and kisses him savagely on his broken mouth. The rest is inevitable.

Sherlock's orgasm shakes him apart and John grabs his throat while the aftershocks are still racking through him.

“Now you're mine,” declares John. “I own you.”

I think not.

Sherlock is mine. My brother. My blood. My property. Why would I share him with anyone else? Of course I will not, it is not my way.  Power lies in ownership, in domination and control.  I will teach him who his true master is and you will be quite forgotten. A tiny fraction of his life, a few months of friendship and mere days of servitude.  I have always been there, from the moment of his birth and it is my shoulder he will cry upon when you are torn from him.

I erase the media file. 

It only takes a single phone call to destroy a man's life. Tomorrow, John. You will meet your fate and I will reclaim what is rightfully mine.

I pour myself a cognac, full-blooded and expensive.  This night's work has pleased me. There are rules that one must live by, appearances to maintain, but behind closed doors we will be united Sherlock and I. Bonded by blood, subjugated to my will, but not tamed. My caged tiger. My brother. My love.


End file.
